it's better when i bleed for you
by black-ostia
Summary: he will leave you with nothing. he will wreck your life, and you will let him. /filikili/
1. rain in the doorway

**warning: do not read if you do not like r-rated stuff between two brothers and a lot of heartache.**

* * *

Aim and fire.

Just aim and fire.

Dirt in your palm, rough, grating. Your bow clenched between your knees as you swipe your hands together, coating them in clean brown, the sweat countered by the dry. Crack your knuckles and take up your bow again, nock an arrow and draw the string tight, exhale quietly. Squint, aim.

Fire.

Back, hand loose, the balls of your feet, your arrow singing, sweeping the air, twist back, twist back, the first thing they teach you. Hood low enough that the world is chopped off above the tops of the bushes, a flat wide perspective, the river rushing two yards from you, half of the hunting party in the right corner of your eye, the snare in the left.

But you're not looking at the snare.

But you have to look at the snare.

You have to look at him.

No, no you don't, you can look at Thorin, you can see the boar fast approaching, you don't have to look at him.

But you need to see if he plans to use his spear or his swords, if he's planted himself firmly in a crouch by the snare in wait, you need to see him in motion. You need to look at him.

Thank Mahal he's faced away from you, you don't want to see his eyes, you're sure you wouldn't be able to take that. He just swung his sword, inches from someone's nose, he's always trying to scare someone off. He's scared you off. Thorin hissing from your side, "Stop showing off, you'll give us away."

He turns and faces your uncle, recomposed but still scowling at the edges. He's facing you, half facing you, his profile, his hard perfect profile, the shadow of foliage sloping across his cheek. Look down at the ground, look at the dirt, the half-composted leaves. Don't look at him.

He's not looking at you.

He sheaths his sword, snaps it into place, he is quick, his movements sharp. Fast hands, you remember, slamming you against the wall.

No.

Aim.

Just aim and fire.

He is leaned in, his one hand curled around the spear now, his other arm swinging free, he is letting the blood run down, just enough to burr in his muscles. He shakes his fingers, bending them in and out, and the boar bursts in through the thicket squealing bloody murder with your arrow in its rear.

It is chaos, entropy unchained, and the boar isn't falling into the trap like it should, the other Dwarves are being tossed like rag dolls. And he and Glóin charge at the boar, they're running straight for it from the side, oh Durin, the cretins think they can knock it into the hole, they're going to be crushed, he's going to be crushed.

And you move without thinking, you grab an axe that's been flung to the ground and lift it, wait for the right moment, wait for it, wait.

But then he lifts his chin and the sunlight catches him full in the face, this face you know so well, your best friend, your sweetest breath, the stark smooth lines, his perfect face, his eyes like the shadows at dusk, his eyes that you have known laughing and furious and devastated and ecstatic and black with desire and never crying, because he does not cry.

Oh, you cannot breathe, you are falling, you have to move, no, you can't, there's no way. Not here, not here, not on the hunting grounds, in front of your uncle and your friends, please please please not here.

Your arms up, numb, and you cannot move, he might die, you could kill him if you don't do something, and Thorin, the saviour of all, has grabbed a spear and is sticking the boar through the neck, narrowly striking Glóin as well but he is Thorin, he does not miss.

The boar is screaming but the worst is over. Balin has to go over and pry your uncle's hands from the spear, and Glóin comes to you with a half-laugh, "That's my axe you've got there, lad," and over at Nori and Dori he's glaring at you. He's glaring at you and you want to tell him not to, everyone will be able to see through him if he glares at you when he should be grinning with relief, but of course no one ever sees through him, you are the transparent one, you are crystal, fragile and invisible.

Did he see through you? Is that what started this? Did he see something in you that you did not see in yourself? Did your eyes give you away when you looked him, your near-black eyes, did he see you watching him in the shadows, did he see the terrible light in your face when you were standing close, did he see all the things you didn't know you were doing, all the things you didn't know you wanted? Is that why he pinned you against the wall, fastening his warm mouth to yours—

No.

The worst is over.

Scuff. Grime on your boots, all over your cloak, and you always forget about the dirt on your hands when you scoop off your hood and run your hand through your hair. Every day out in the forest, your matted hair is stiff and spiky, streaked with brown. His hands in your hair, pulling your head forward, his hands clenching in your hair, his strong hands with long fingers, swordsman's calluses, his hands stroking down your neck, and no, no. No.

Your uncle is yelling at him now, how could you be so careless, could have gotten yourself killed, and he may be murmuring to Thorin but he is looking at you eyes furious and dark, his mouth twisted, and you think he will say something cruel about your own deviance, you think he will cut you down and you will fall, you will not be able to stand it. But then there is the duck of his throat swallowing and something broken whisking across his face, and he turns, his head down, and he apologises one last time to your uncle before going to help truss up the kill because the worst is over but you know that's not true for the both of you.

* * *

You didn't mean for it to happen.

This is what you believe, what you have to believe.

It was a good night after a good day, and you were laughing a lot, the two of you, you were laughing at the tavern with your friends, you were making fun of him because you had overheard him speaking with your mother that afternoon, telling her that he had knocked the old master who was training him on his backside, you were making fun of him because he still had a swing like a rusty gate and couldn't hit a boulder if it sat on a silver platter under his nose. You were making fun of him, but in the shorthand way of talking that the two of you have developed since you were children, the cut-off words, the code, and none of the others could understand, they looked at the both of you like you'd gone mad, which maybe you had, and he was laughing so hard he couldn't breathe, his face bright red, his hand clinging to the wood edge of the table, and you somehow warned him against getting splinters in his working hand in only about three words, and he put his head down on the table and laughed even harder, and you laughed even harder, gasping, hiccuping, and you tipped over, out of your chair, your shoulder slamming against the floor, and you had not fallen down laughing since you were very young, and Bofur picked you up, his hands hooked under your arms, and Bofur told you that you were too drunk, because Bofur was the responsible sort in the manner of practical middle-aged men, and somehow you and he were dragged out of there, everyone thinking you'd both gone mad, and maybe you had, maybe you had.

Back at home, it was stark black in the hills and your parents were fast asleep and you kept drinking your father's secret cache with him even though you were already pretty drunk.

And he was warm next to you on the floor, something you noticed in an abstract, blurry sort of way, you were buzzing and he was warm next to you, his knee nudging yours, his arm tossed up along your shoulders, and it occurred to you, happy and drunk, how much you loved him, how wonderful it was, how wonderful you both were. Your self-esteem always got knocked up a couple of notches when you were intoxicated.

You might have said something to him about this, about how much you liked hanging out with him and still downing ale at three in the morning, you might have even said something about how you didn't think you could imagine a life not being his younger brother.

You suffered from a total absence of heart, you explained, it was this emptiness inside you, this sneaking suspicion that you weren't growing up a good man at all, that you were cold and destructive and worthless and couldn't be trusted, because all you ever did was ruin things. You knew that he had seen that in you sometimes, the clawing panic and despair in your eyes, but he never brought it up, he was just always there, letting you crawl into his room on the carpet when you were tired of being alone, staying up with you when you couldn't sleep, keeping you distracted with riddles and wrestling, a steady stream of conversation from him even when you were too exhausted to answer, and he would look at you straightforward, honest, arrogant in his certainty of you, as he was arrogant in everything, and you knew he saw something in you that made you worth his presence, worth his attention, and you began to believe that look on his face, you began to recover.

Possibly he answered your rambling, near-incoherent confession of affection for him, possibly he didn't, you couldn't remember.

And it wasn't until you both fell companionably silent that it hit you hard how motionless and empty the night was, how far out your house was, tucked in the hills, the whole mountainside around you for miles deeply asleep, until it felt like the entire world had been hollowed out, and it was just you and him.

You got up to take the empty tankards into the kitchen, and when you turned to head back out, he was standing in the doorway, and it was all shadows, the flicker of the candlelight drafting idly across the wall behind him, and you could make out his form in the darkness, your eyes adjusting, his features coming into focus.

You tipped your head at him, wondering what he was doing just standing there, and he looked down, his eyebrows pulling in, and he stepped back, into the hallway.

You followed him, and the two of you stood there, facing each other, and you thought distractedly, 'Something's going to happen.'

He wasn't looking at you, staring at his feet, and you reached out and poked his shoulder, trying to snap him out of this strange trance. He lifted his eyes and you grinned at him, and it was three in the morning, and you and he were the last two people on earth.

He swallowed and said with his voice rough, "You have…your eyes…"

You lifted your hand and rubbed your eyes, thinking he meant there was something wrong with them, but he shook his head and your hand fell. He cleared his throat. "They're just…they're so dark. I don't think I've ever seen anything so dark."

And you blinked. And you lost your breath.

And then he was reaching out, his hands on your shoulders, and then he was pinning you against the wall, and you were frightened, you were ripped with panic all of a sudden, because he was older than you, he was stronger and his hands were bigger, and you could feel his power, and he pinned you against the wall, slammed you against the wall, the flimsy boards shaking as your back collided with it, and he pressed you down hard and then he was kissing you, he was searing his mouth to yours, and his mouth did more to keep you in place than his hands ever could, because you couldn't break away from him, you couldn't pull away, you didn't want to, not ever, and his mouth was hot and sure and when he parted your lips with his tongue you let him, and he tasted like mead and sunlight, and his hands were shifting to cup your face, his thumbs sweeping along your cheekbones, and you were thinking, 'yes yes yes.'

When he drew away, you were both gasping, and you saw the shocked look cross his face, the stunned dismay at what he'd done, and he was already apologising, he was begging your forgiveness when you grabbed him by the back of his neck and pulled his mouth down to yours again, and his arms were looping around your waist and lifting you, and your bodies were pressed together, this shudder of heat, this shaking impossible thing happening in the hallway of your house, and you were half-dragged, half-carried to his bedroom, narrowly crashing into the doorway because neither of you were watching where you were going, and you toppled to the floor in this mess of arms and legs and then you were laughing again, you were laughing and you couldn't breathe and he was all around you, he was everywhere, his brilliant hands dashing across your body, and you tilted your head back on the carpet and laughed and laughed and laughed.

And you didn't mean for it to happen.

Neither did he, of course, there was no way that he expected the night to end with the two of you on the floor of his room, learning all the tastes of each other's body and leaving marks that you would get teased about in town the next day.

He kept half-mumbling your name, his mouth on your neck and your chest and your stomach, saying, "Kíli, Kíli, my beloved," and you loved feeling the fall of his breath saying your name on your skin, and then he caught your eyes and maybe he was blushing, too dark to tell, and said, "Um, I didn't mean to call you that?" And that was possibly funnier than anything that had happened so far, his assumption that you would want him to call you by such pet names name if you were going to be doing this, crossing this line, and you almost choked, shaking your head, grinning at him. "You don't have to," you told him, and he grinned back at you and leaned up to sink into your mouth again, and he never called you beloved again.

It was strange and it was good and you'd never lain with a man before, but you found you loved it, his long legs, the span of his fingers, the breadth of his shoulders, the way it felt like he could wrap his arms around you three or four times if he wanted to. You loved the taste of him and the fact that you knew him so well, and this just seemed like the last thing you needed to learn about him, so it wasn't so bad, it wasn't wrong, it was just the next step.

And when he was asleep, the porch light crept through the window, the drapes pulled open because he liked to be woken up by the sun in the morning, said it was the most natural way, when he was asleep he was lying in a patch of warm soft light, and he looked poured out of gold.

You were feeling pretty good about the whole thing until you woke up in the morning to find him staring at you with a mix of horror and revulsion, and you didn't need him to say anything, you already knew what he was going to say, and that shattering in your chest, that was probably the heart that he'd help grow back, and you wanted to curl up on yourself, your chin pressed to your knees, your hands smothering over your ears, you wanted to squeeze yourself into nothing, you wanted to disappear, but instead you just sat up slowly, and watched his expression go even more stricken as the sheet fell down to your waist, and you knew he could see the bruises from his mouth on your skin, your neck and chest, the stubble burn on your stomach, and he said, his voice flat and hard, "Leave."

And you went.

And that was it.

* * *

Can't talk about it, how can you talk about it? Of course not with him, because he isn't talking to you or looking at you or letting himself be in the same room as you, but you can't talk about it with anyone else either.

You feel the words in your mouth sometimes, when you're out with Gimli or the Dwarves from Moria, when you are drunk because you have to get drunk to be able to sleep, and you feel the words, thick with the taste of alcohol, the words that have doomed you, you almost say them, almost, "So last week I lay with my brother," but then you know you cannot say his name, you cannot even think his name, it's bad enough to have his blood in your dirty lungs, mocking you.

If you could say his name, if you could tell someone, the next part of your confession would be, "And now I don't think I'm going to recover, not ever again." Which is true, but you've given up on the truth.

You think Gimli might understand. Or at least, he won't shun you, because Gimli has known you both for almost as long as you've known your brother, and he cares about his friends with wide eyes and hands that will hold you up should you fall down. But you can't tell him, because Gimli adores him like the big brother he never had (and you do), halfway hero worship, and you don't want to ruin that for him.

You can't talk about it, and you swear that you will not think about it, either, this is harder to do, and you want to run.

You want to run.

You cannot avoid him entirely, of course, you live with him and must go to the same places as him, it is an impossible thing. He doesn't sleep at home anymore, you don't know if he's staying with your uncle or if he's picking up strangers in the tavern, anyone who can provide him with a bed for the night, a bed that is not his bed, and not your bed.

No, you don't want him in your bed, you don't.

But he stays away from your house, as much as possible, swinging by once every couple of days for fresh clothes, slamming in through the front door, startling you as you sit on the fireside chair or sleepwalk around the kitchen, he slams in and is down the hall without the slightest acknowledgement, into his room stuffing tunics and breeches into his bag, and then gone again, the door crashing shut behind him, he comes and goes so fast sometimes you think you've imagined him.

You wish you've imagined him.

He doesn't talk to you and he doesn't look at you and people have noticed almost immediately, your friends and parents, they give you strange looks, they ask you if you're doing all right, they are unsettled by the fact that you are not laughing with him in the market, not ragging on him in the open field where he trains, not leaving the forges with him, they ask you if you're doing all right and you lie, you have gotten so good at lying.

You want to grab him, you want to wrap your hands around his arms and throw him into a wall, you want to scream at him, you want to force him out of this stupid crush of denial, this steadfast refusal to acknowledge what has happened and what is still happening, you want to hit him until your fists are bloody, you want to make him look at you and listen to you, you want to break open all your fury and all your devastation, you want your throat to be raw and hoarse with everything that is clawing to get out, you want to scream and rage, you want to scream at him, scream, "Damn you, you beardless coward, you started it, you touched me, you held me down, your voice cracked when you said my name and you smiled against my mouth, you coward, you've wrecked me, I'm nothing now, and I can't take this, and you're going to bloody _look at me_!"

You want to say all these things to him, but more than that you want him to pin you to a wall again, you want to feel his hands on you again, and this is the worst of it, this is rock bottom, because you hate what's happened, and all you want is for it to happen again.

Every day, you try to beat him out of yourself in the forges, you try to scour away the memories of his hands and his mouth and his body, and it never works, because he is there, he is in the taverns and in the market and in your heart, and you cannot escape it, you cannot escape anything, you are left alone with this nightmare, half-blind and hollow.

It's a different thing, feeling yourself torn apart by a man. Maybe, it's possible, there's a chance that in some way-far-down part of your mind you have always known that you like the way men look and the way they laugh, you like hard muscle and deep voices, you are warm with the touch of a wide-palmed hand on your back. Somewhere you have always known this, but you have always been able to tuck it away, it has never reared up and grabbed you by the throat and thrown you down. You do not exist in a world in which your occasional desire to find out if the skin of a man tastes any different would be easy or accepted, so it is not something that you have ever bothered to come to terms with, and that doesn't make it anything special, because you have never really come to terms with anything.

But this is different than admitting to yourself that you wanted him, you probably wanted him long before he pinned you against the wall, it is not just the admittance of all that you have kept hidden, it is different because he is your brother and the damage he has done to you is worse than anything a woman has ever been able to inflict, worse than being gored by a wild boar, worse than any extremes of pain that you might have imagined were possible.

You try and convince yourself that it's only because he was the first, the first man you let touch you and kiss you and hold you down, the first man you held down, and that is the only reason it feels like this. You try and convince yourself that if you somehow found another man in a tavern, you would be able to replace his form with someone else's, that all this is happening because he broke open a place inside of you that you don't want to close up again. It's not him, it's just the crippling release of decades years of denial, and you would feel the same had it been anyone else.

But then you think about finding another man, maybe not in a tavern, somewhere else, you think about finding a safe place where this tense demanding heat within you might find a home, and you shake off the idea, because you love your family, you love your honour, and no man is beautiful enough to make you risk that.

And even as you think this, you know that it is not true, because you would risk it for him, and this is the most terrible part of it, the sick choking knowledge that if he came to you again, you would risk everything, anything, and you cannot, no matter how hard you try, lose the awareness of all that you would give up to once again have him with you in the night.

You don't miss him. You don't. You don't miss his grin or his broad laugh, you don't miss seeing him first thing in the morning and last thing at night, you don't miss his sure presence in your life, you don't miss the way you assumed he would always just be there, breathing in the room next to yours, you don't miss his warmth beside you, you don't miss his friendship, though he is the best friend you've ever had, you don't miss his voice or his hand on the back of your neck, you don't miss catching his eyes across a room and seeing him wink at you, you don't miss being the only one who can make him laugh after he's had a bad day, you don't miss seeing the light on under his door when you come home and feeling safe.

Every night you go out and drink hard, fast, with determination, and you go to bed with your head waltzing, stumbling, because you are weak and you want to sleep, and you can only sleep if you pass out, and you are worthless, and you know it, you are terrified and unanchored, and sometimes you wake up crying.

And this is nothing you ever thought would happen to you.

You're gone, you're so far gone and you know it. You're dealing with this in the worst way possible, stuck in it, drowning, shattering. You're not getting anything right, and if this is rock bottom, then why are you still falling?

* * *

Of course, eventually you snap. Eventually you can't take it anymore, and you collapse.

It is one night out at a tavern, and he has been dragged along, called out by the others because he's been avoiding hanging out with a crowd for so long. You know that it is not your friends he is avoiding, it is you, but that's not really something you can explain to them.

The fact that he's there makes you drink all the more, switching from whiskey to wine an hour in, ignoring the half-laughed warnings about mixing beer and liquor, and you try not to look at him, across the table, his eyes everywhere but on you, he is smiling and joking with the others, and you feel so far away, you feel miles away, cut out of this warm little world of laughter and hands slapped on backs.

You are cold and your hands are shaking, and you want to bite down on your knuckles to keep from moaning, and you knock back three fingers of some Manmade brew in one shot, and gasp, your eyes watering, making everything blur. You clatter the glass back down on the table, clumsy, and it falls onto its side. You very carefully right it, and then there is a hand on your arm. It is Bofur, and you drag your head up with effort, blinking, your eyelids pulled halfway down and everything dark.

"I think you're good for tonight, lad," Bofur says quietly, and you want to cry, because sometimes you are reminded of what good friends you have, how happy you used to be. Bofur is looking out for you, they are all looking out for you, worried about you, wanting you back the way you were, all of them except for him, because he doesn't care, he wants you to kill yourself almost as much as you want to kill yourself, and you used to be happy. You used to be so happy.

"M'alright," you mumble, pulling your arm away, ducking your eyes down so you won't have to look at Bofur or any of them, so you won't have to look at him. You stand, unsteady, scraping your chair back against the wood floor, and say to no one in particular, "Be right back," and no one looks up, and you feel invisible.

The walk across the tavern is treacherous and swimming, hysterical laughing faces, swarms of colour, the feeling of tipping over, wanting to hold your hands out in front of you in case you fall.

You get to the comfort room and brace your hands on the mirror, staring at yourself, unrecognisable, the charcoal stubble on your cheeks and jaw, the heavy bruises under your eyes, the paper-white cast of your face, your black hair making you look even paler, and your eyes are haunted, lost, beaten, and you hear him in your head, saying, "I don't think I've ever seen anything so dark," and something breaks inside you, and you choke down a sob, your throat burning, and you rest your forehead on the glass, trying to breathe deep, and it's so wrong, it's all so wrong.

When you cannot stand to be alone with yourself anymore, you stumble out of the small room, tripping over the low wood step of the door, falling into the hallway, falling into someone, a solid form, your head banging against a flat chest, your hands on a hard stomach.

Then you are being shoved away, back against the door, and you look up and it's him, no please, but it is.

You try to stutter out "Sorry," but your voice is gone, and you can't imagine the look on your face, you can't imagine the despair in your hollowed-out eyes, but he glares at you and says, "Stop acting like a lost cause," his voice cold, and you almost laugh, it is so ridiculous that he of all people, who made this disaster of you, who so fully annihilated you, should tell you to stop acting like a lost cause.

You want to snap at him, something hard and fierce, you want to tell him that this is his fault, this is all his fault, you want to hit him with all the strength you have, but his eyes are dark and his skin is smooth, and more than you want to hurt him, you want to kiss him, and more than you want to hit him, you want to lick the sweat out of his collarbone, and you crumple, back against the wall, your hands up over your face, and you hear him blow out an irritated breath and brush past you to get into the bathroom, the door swinging shut with a rush of air, and you slide down the wall, your knees up against your chest, your palms against your eyes, but you cannot stay there for long, because he will come back out, and you don't want him to see you like this.

You claw to your feet and somehow make it back to the table, and despite the concern etched along Bofur's brow, and the uneasy confusion on Gimli's face, you drink more, and you don't notice when he's come back, things fracturing around you, sounds and images coming in splintered fragments, and you laugh too loudly, then are silent for long periods of time, staring down at your hands, and you are vaguely aware of being led home.

You don't remember how you got back, but upon staggering to your doorstep, you think dumbly that you left your bow on the back porch, you will need to bring it inside, because it might rain, who can say, it could rain.

It is stunningly dark down the path that runs along the side of your house, and your hands held out in front of you for balance are smeared with the black shapes of leaves, and you can see the unearthly blue glow of the river before you turn the corner, this pulsing aura, so bright you squint against it.

You are so drunk and you are so tired, and you have your bow in your hand, and things are being up-ended, and you cannot figure out how to open the back door, you cannot get it to unlock, your hands are fumbling and stupid, and you are almost weeping with frustration, and everything is disintegrating around you, and you are so tired, and when you fall you do not feel your body hit the ground, and you are left like a dead man on the back porch, bathed in the blue light, your face scraped by the stone, and it is black, and you cannot feel anything, which is a good change, and that is the last thing you think before the dark crashes down around you and you are gone.

* * *

Someone is shaking you, saying your name, and your cheek hurts, and your ribs hurt, and you surface slowly, climbing upwards, hating the return to consciousness though you're not sure why, you just know you don't want to think, the dark is good and you don't want to think, and you don't want to wake up.

But you do, and you turn your head, ever so slightly, every part of you aching, sore from the unforgiving stone, and you make a sound like a moan, and you look up, and it is him.

It is him and he is crouching beside you, his arm out, his hand on your shoulder, and he has not touched you in two weeks, his palm warm through your shirt, and the sky is sharply obsidian above him, vast and unholy, but his face is not angry, his eyes shadowed and sad.

"What…what happened?" he asks, and you think that he should know that, he was there, he was the one who started it, pinning you against the wall, searing his mouth to yours, stealing away your taste and making you want nothing but to feel his hands on you again, but then you realise he is talking about you passing out on the porch, crumpled at the foot of the door, dead on the ground.

"I fell," you say, your voice scraping, and you wince at the sting of talking.

He swallows and looks away, and you don't want him to see you like this, you don't want him to see you this beaten, this fallen, but it hurts too much to move.

When he speaks, his eyes are still turned away. "I didn't…I didn't know this is how terrible it was. For you. I didn't know that I hurt you this much."

You get a hand flat on the ground and push up, groaning as you lever up. Your head spins as you pull yourself into a sitting position, and you drag your legs up, bending your knees against your chest, and you take your head in your hands. "I don't know why seeing me passed out on the ground should be so revelatory for you, dear brother," you say harshly, wanting to cut him down, wanting this jagged pain of yours to be shared by you both, so that at least you will share something.

His jaw tightens, something that might be a grimace or a wave of anger, and he looks back at you, his face rough, and you realise that he looks tired, too, he looks exhausted.

"I did not mean to…that night, it was not…I did not mean for this to happen," he says, his voice struggling to remain steady, something shuddering in between his words.

You test the bruise on your face with your fingers, wincing, and say dully, "Yeah, well, I never really expected to have my heart broken by you, either."

His eyes flare, and he asks with soft despair, "Is that what I did to you?"

You press your fist against your mouth and say, muffled, "'Tis one of the many things you've done to me, yes."

You are not looking at him, you do not want to look at him, so you do not see his hand, stretching out, and you jerk away when he touches your hair, snapping your gaze up in shock, and his hand hovers there uncertain for a moment, then he reaches forward and rests his knuckles gently against your cheekbone.

You are frozen, you can only stare, and he carefully turns his hand, tumbles his fingers over your face, and you close your eyes, because you cannot take this, this is worse than anything he has done so far, this is so far beyond anything that you can bear.

His thumb traces along your jaw, and he whispers your name, and your eyes come open against your will, and you find him looking at you with something that is sorrow and regret and confusion and anger, somehow all at once, and you cannot breathe, and his voice is ragged as he says, "I…I cannot understand what's going on. Not since we…I mean, I don't…I've never thought of you like that. I swear, I never have."

His eyes are demanding that you believe him, his hand slipping off your face, clenching into a fist against his knee, and you somehow speak past the motionless fear and exhilaration in your chest. "It's a little late to be protesting that, is it not?"

His face hardens, and you think he will probably hit you, and you wait for it almost eagerly, but instead he visibly forces calm into himself and says tightly, "That is not the point."

You want his hand back on your face, you want him closer to you, it is miles that separate the two of you, out here on the stone. "So what is the point?" you whisper, trying not to let your voice crack.

He rubs his hand across his face and sighs, looking away from you. "The point is…I used to know what I wanted, and then you let me kiss you, you did not push me away, and then you left when I told you to, which was what I wanted, but I've been so angry for you doing so, and now I cannot understand anything, I don't know what on Arda is going on."

You wrap your arms around your legs and hug yourself tight, because it has gotten cold. There are falling stars flicking across the sky, and you wonder what you should wish for.

He pulls your eyes back, he will always be able to do that. "Listen, I know these are things that must go unspoken between us. Not just because we are both men, but because I cannot…I cannot do this with you. You are my brother, I do not desire this with you."

You hate his honesty, especially when you know that lying is second-nature to him. You wish he would lie to you now; he has lied to you so many other times, why not now?

It's hard for him, you know, to speak like this, he does not trade in words, he is all motion, he is quick swift vanishing, he does not speak his mind, he probably doesn't even know his own mind, which maybe makes this easier, because you don't know what's going on either.

He drags the words out. "But I…I want you, for now, at least. And it shan't be fair to you, I suppose, because it's…more than that for you. I know. But I'm not sure I care, because right now I want you. Like I've never wanted in my life, I want you. If you think…if you think you could let me…just let me…"

And then he is leaning forward, his hand finding your face again, and your eyes are open as his drift close, and his mouth is on yours again, uncertain, awkward, the balance all wrong, he is out of his centre of gravity, tilting towards you on his knees, and he is kissing you, vague, fumbling, and you kiss him back, because how can you not?

When he pulls back, there is a small sigh falling from him, falling onto your lips, you can taste his breath in your mouth, and you blink at him, and he stares back at you, like he has never seen you before, like you are something he never expected.

"I do not wish to hurt you again, but I cannot promise you that I shall not. I cannot…I cannot promise you anything," he says in a jagged little whisper. "Is that…is this something you can do?"

Do you trust him? Can you trust him? Does it matter?

And you want to say that you are not here for him to be unsure of, you are not his solution. You want to be stronger than this, you want to tell him that it's not good enough, he's not good enough. It's the truth, but you don't believe it.

Because you will take anything, you will accept whatever he has to give, no matter how far it falls short of what you deserve, no matter how much it hurts. You will take the pieces of him if you cannot have the whole, because this is all he is capable of, and he is still the only thing you want.

He will leave you with nothing. He will wreck your life, and you will let him.

You nod, shaky, your chin bumping your folded-up knees. His eyes go slow, go bright, go blinding. He will light you on fire if you do not look away, but you cannot look away.

He grins, his old grin, the grin that means he's just won something, he's taken something from someone who didn't want to let go, and there is too much light behind your eyes, there is too much colour and hope and fear, and a sob tears out of your throat, and you can't believe it, you have lost to him, you have lost, but is this victory? Is this defeat?

And he is reaching out and pulling you to him, you are falling against him and his arms are around you and you are crying now, you are crying so hard, harder than you've ever cried before, your face against his shoulder, you are holding onto him and his arms are strong around you, his hand smoothing down over your hair, and you are holding on, and he is whispering roughly, "It's alright. You're alright, hush now. You're alright, little brother, it's alright. It's alright."

Over and over, he is telling you that you are alright, his breath against your ear, you are kneeling there together with your arms around each other, and everything is coming together, and you are holding onto him, as tight as you can, you are feeling the warmth of his chest and the strength of the muscles in his back, and you are scared and you don't think you believe him, you don't think he's telling the truth, but you will take what you can get.

At some point when there is nothing left inside you, you raise your head and you kiss him, catching him off guard, but in a moment he is there, he is pressing back and kissing you like he will die if he stops, he is pulling all the air out of you, but you don't think you need air anymore, you don't think you need anything but him anymore.

And you are terrified and you are happy and you want to think that he is yours now, he is sure and he is perfect and he is yours, but this is a lie.

Right now, you think. Right now. He is here, his arms, his body, his mouth, his breath harsh on your skin, his light flooding through you. Right now he is here, and this will be enough, because this has to be enough.

Maybe this is how it would be anyway, how it always is. Maybe nobody can ever promise anybody anything that matters, not their hearts or the future, maybe it's not something we should ask of other people, maybe it's not something they can give us. Maybe you aren't surrendering yourself completely to him; maybe it just feels that way.

Eventually, your knees are shooting with pain from kneeling on the porch, and though you don't really want to move, you tug a few inches of space away and say, "We ought to go inside."

He nods, his eyes black, heavy-lidded, watching your mouth. "Probably," he murmurs before catching you in another kiss, his hand up under your coat, spread wide on the shifting planes of your back.

You laugh, wondering if all you will ever be able to do is laugh and cry, if there will ever be any middle ground for you, and say, "Seriously, I need my knees, it's rather important that I not be crippled."

He grins and stands, pulling you up, and you still cannot quite believe this is happening. You keep waiting for the spell to break, you keep waiting to wake up in your empty house with a twisting, wretched hangover, you keep waiting to return to consciousness in the world where he hates you and you hate him and you hate yourself, but as each second scrolls out, you think more and more that it won't happen, and he is swinging open the door that gave you so much trouble before, he is drawing you through the shadows of the house, and you are grinning, your face will split if you keep grinning this much, even though you are terrified, you are so terrified, and he keeps looking back over his shoulder as if to reconfirm your presence, and every time he sees you, his eyes are brighter and more astonished, and you have never felt like this before, you have never been close to feeling like this.

It is panic but it is joy, too, it is misery and failure and everything you have ever wished for, his hand caught up in yours, and the house is dark, as dark as a thing can get, and someday maybe he will not want you anymore, someday he will hurt you because that is the only way he can reach you, and you think about loving something so much you have to betray it, and you think there's no such thing as promises, no such thing as a happy ending, and you think, right now. Right now.

He pulls you into your room, where the shades have been drawn for two weeks, making the place nothing but smothered in total darkness, and you fall onto the bed, and he is crawling after you, sliding on top of you, and you cannot see anything, you can feel his hands and his mouth, but you cannot see anything, so you ask into the pure black, "Fíli?"

And he replies, distracted by your tunic and the buckle on his belt, "Yes?" kissing your throat and trailing his hand down the line of your chest.

And you smile, your heart breaking all over again, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, and you say, "Nothing. I only had to make sure that was you."

* * *

**yeah, um. i'm not exactly happy with this. did this while in a mental block from all my exams and my run-on sentences came back with a vengeance, goddamn it. and my shitty week just contributed to the lemon-juice-in-your-papercuts-factor, so sorry. hopefully this thing is still eligible for submission for the contest i made it for.**

**reviews are love.**


	2. it always rains on the unloved

**so GoneDrake mentioned that i continue this thing. i wasn't that against the idea. more pain here though, so. you've been fairly warned.**

* * *

Five months later and Fíli has decided that there are more important things in the world. Which is true, but still hardly fair.

You're watching him pour orange cordial and say all this with a straight face, like, "Brother, we need to get some sleep. You need to get some air. It's not just a cry for help anymore."

You nod along, tapping on the table with your thumb. Blinking darkly like you can drag him back in again and make him forget. He leans against the counter and you can't get over the cock of his hip, the casual tilt of his shoulders and his fingers curled around the cup.

"I'm tired of watching my back," Fíli says, looking the same as every morning in his nightshirt and trousers. You're confused for a moment, thinking about Orc-scouts and hunting parties, villages kept on their toes by war and beasts. But you know that outside of your kitchen here in the hills and the village down by the valley, nobody really cares about this.

You've talked Fíli out of ending it probably a half a dozen times over the past three months alone. He goes through cycles and you ride them as you'd like to ride him, easy and accommodating. Fíli plays skittish and sullen and eventually you just push him up against the wall.

He seems to enjoy that.

Anyway, Fíli's drinking orange cordial and you're already planning on licking that taste out of his mouth within the next few minutes. His shirt is creased-white and loosely tied with a drawstring; they'll easily reveal the soft golden fur on his chest and stomach like it was never there.

So how's your life?

You've been taking vital signs for half the year, expecting to have no pulse, nothing pushing at the insides of your wrists or in the long ditch of your throat. You've given up on everything, but your heart still beats, a kind of cruel joke like ruined fletches in new arrows. You wake up in the morning expecting something to have changed, like Fíli will be there or he will smile at you when you stumble into the kitchen rubbing your eyes and yawning, but he's not like that.

And neither are you, really.

Ridiculous pale imitation of the man you once were, and you go through the motions, you laugh and you jest and you empty your quiver every day and you let Fíli take you almost every night like it's something that can be beaten out of you, like turning it into sound and sweat will make it go away.

It takes you hours to catch your breath.

Fíli is trying to end it. But you know him better than he thinks you do. You always have.

When he falls silent, you ask, "Is that it?"

His eyes narrow slightly, his knuckles standing up as he tightens his grip. "I'm serious, Kíli."

You get to your feet. "I never said you weren't." You walk over to him, take the cup out of his hand and put your fist there instead, preserving the curve of his fingers.

You knew what you were getting into. You agreed to all of this.

Fíli is watching you suspiciously, tension strung through his body. You are obsessed with his body, so, alright.

"It's not a cry for help, Fíli," you tell him. "Nobody can hear me."

You slide your free hand through his shirt, over the solid line of his sternum. You wiggle your thumb into the loop of the drawstring, your fingers curved to slot between his ribs. You pull his shirt open bare to the stomach and Fíli's eyes are glazed over, just a little bit, like when he's had a tankard too many.

You've learned new things from him over the past five months, enough that you might pass for him in an unlit alley. You're the rip-off version. You don't think about things so much anymore. Thinking about it became impossible to bear.

"So why don't you just settle down," you whisper, and angle up to kiss him. He lets you, his mouth moving carefully under yours, but his hand is on your arm and he holds you back from slipping your hand farther down and into his trousers.

"You're not _listening_," Fíli says, his face close enough to yours that you can spot grey in his eyes, and you wonder if that's age, if he's fading even as you watch.

"It's an different tune to the same song, brother," you answer.

He sneers. You can smell the orange on his breath. "There are other things that matter more now."

You lean against him, sighing. He's as hard as the counter behind him, planks of ebony in his hands. He takes your weight like it's nothing.

Fíli has broken you up and the pieces are his now, so you can't let him go. Self-preservation has never been your strong suit, but you can reason circularly, he has me and I have him and so I'm whole. It's like arithmetic. But you don't really have him. You know he can't bear seeing you unruly-haired and spent and fingerprinted in his bed, in his room.

You just let him do whatever he needs to do, until he tries to leave. Then you use your mouth and your hands until he decides, well, one more day can't hurt.

Of course, every day hurts.

"You always have really good reasons," you say, resting your head on his shoulder. "It changes nothing."

He lets you use him as a wall, and it's alright because his hands are closed on the lip of the counter and he's not touching you. He just happens to be here, it's all a coincidence.

"I do you a favour, Kíli," Fíli tells you hoarsely. You laugh.

"Durin save me from your favours." You breathe him in, the neat contrast between the soft of the nightshirt and the warmth of his shoulder.

"If I were to walk away—" Fíli starts, but you cut him off.

"Walk away. I dare you. Take up Uncle's old lodgings, or Balin's. Get out of this house and never look at me again. Do you think you can?"

You look up and Fíli's staring at you in shock. You show your teeth, feeling decayed.

"It's. It's our parents' house, it's _my _house as much as yours," Fíli says eventually, and his chest sinks as he lets out a breath. He places his hands on your hips, tugging you closer against him. You smile and he licks his lips, oddly nervous. It's at least the ninth time you've talked him out of leaving.

You'll do it a million times more. You'll scream at him when he's an idiot and hold him down when he's injured and on unremarkable mornings like today you'll let him fold you over the kitchen table, his hand fisted in your shirt and pressed to the middle of your back. You'll talk sweet to him and talk dirty and beg, you'll get down on your knees. You'll do what it takes, because there was a reason you said yes in the first place.

And some winter day, not too far off, he'll dress you while you're asleep, lead you back to your room stumbling and only half-conscious. He'll kiss you goodbye and close the door behind him, the muffled click of the lock, and you'll stand there barefoot and confused, shredded by the diluted sun through your window, and it'll be over then, just like that, without a fight.

You never deserved a fight, anyway.

* * *

**now with a lovely cover by yollo8 from deviantART! i swear one of these days i'll write a long hobbit story that doesn't involve me screwing these boys over. as soon as i'm done being screwed over by life. which might be a while, i dunno.**

**no post-sequel sequel for this, dudes. that is just madness.  
**

**reviews are love.**


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